Another day, another poem to express Trichotillomania thoughts

I’m wading in a messed up heap of my own hair,
pulled out strand by strand
the way I haven’t done since I was much younger;
intrigued with the texture of the hair follicle
when ripped out from the root.

The root of all evil-
I feel like evil personified on several occasions.
The meticulous process of hair-pulling distracts me,
calms me down long enough to prevent self-mutilation.
It stops my tears, helps me breathe. I am relaxed.

Breathe in, hair out.
My coping mechanisms are tearing me apart,
reducing me to this pathetic state-
a depressed and anxious body
that no longer has the strength to sustain itself.

I’m losing myself more and more
with each strand that falls to the floor.

Thoughts that cross my mind every day expressed through a lovely poem written by a fellow Tricher

Trichotillomania, that’s what they call it. When I pick, pull and stroke every strand of my hair. Sometimes, I notice. Other times, I don’t. There are layers to this condition, thank goodness mine is only mild. But is mild, even good news to a condition that has no cure? © 2016 Nikkita Robert

via Trichotillomania — pen, pad and thoughts…

A Beautiful Poem written by a fellow Trichster

I am balding at 15, hidden by bangs and switched parts the strands are slipping into my dreams Becoming trees I can never seem to prune so that I won’t raise my hands to my head, now deceased leaves That float to the ground and I pretend they’re not from me

via Genesis: a poem written by a trichotillomaniac — electronic existentialist